In my early twenties, I used to occasionally babysit twin siblings on weekends. Their mother was incredibly attractive and frequently out on dates.
One evening, she mentioned she had met someone new and was heading out for the night. She left around 6 p.m., assuring me she’d be back by midnight. As the hours passed—1 a.m., 2 a.m., then 3 a.m.—I grew increasingly worried.
I kept trying to call her, but eventually, her phone went straight to voicemail. By 7 a.m., she still hadn’t returned. I managed to find her parents’ number in an address book and gave them a call. They didn’t seem alarmed—just irritated, as if this wasn’t the first time. They said they’d come over to watch the kids so I could finally leave.
I also contacted the non-emergency police line to report the situation, letting them know the grandparents were on the way. An hour later, she finally showed up—wearing a man’s T-shirt and high heels, laughing. She made a joke, saying, “Oh my God! Call the police!” like it was funny.
Turns out, she had stayed out all night with the guy and simply turned off her phone to avoid being disturbed. She truly expected me to brush it off like it was nothing. That was the last time I ever babysat for her.